


Pulling Punches

by Eledhwen



Series: Banner & Murdock [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Daredevil Meets the Avengers, Gen, Matt has trust issues, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 05:47:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18888391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eledhwen/pseuds/Eledhwen
Summary: It was, Bruce reflected, a tricky thing to drop into casual conversation, and certainly not without betraying secrets he’d promised not to betray.“By the way, I met Daredevil, and he’s keen for a sparring match.”Too open-ended.“Oh hey, Nat, if you’re free tonight, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen suggested you meet him on a rooftop.”Too provocative.





	Pulling Punches

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, I did a sequel to [Anger Management](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18360926), largely because a few people kindly said they'd like to read about the Avengers sparring with Matt. So herewith presented, a take on "Matt meets the Avengers" in thanks for making the first story in what has now become a series my most-kudosed piece on AO3. I hope you enjoy this too.

It was, Bruce reflected, a tricky thing to drop into casual conversation, and certainly not without betraying secrets he’d promised not to betray.

_“By the way, I met Daredevil, and he’s keen for a sparring match.”_

Too open-ended.

_“Oh hey, Nat, if you’re free tonight, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen suggested you meet him on a rooftop.”_

Too provocative.

In the end, Bruce mentioned it over coffee one morning when most of the other Avengers were there, keeping as much to the truth as he could.

“I, erm, you know Daredevil?” he said. “I met him the other week.”

The others all looked at him.

“Kept that quiet,” Nat said. “Where?”

“Hell’s Kitchen,” said Bruce. The truth, kind of.

“Well, d’uh,” Nat returned. “How?”

“There were muggers. He came to help,” Bruce said. Also true, kind of. “But I think he’d appreciate someone decent to fight. Says he’s usually out on the rooftops at night.”

Nat and Steve exchanged looks. “Did you find out who he is?” Steve asked.

Bruce patched on his best innocent expression. “No, sorry. He wasn’t especially talkative.” Definitely a lie. He hoped his friends could not tell.

Finishing her coffee, Nat put the mug in the sink. “Thanks, Bruce,” she said. “Might check out some rooftops, one of these nights.”

Later on, in a break from research, Bruce texted Matt Murdock. _You might have a visitor soon_ , he wrote.

Around lunchtime, a text came back. _Good, it’s been quiet lately. Could do with the distraction._

Bruce deleted the message, and hoped his friends – old and new – would go easy on each other.

***

Bruce’s announcement about Daredevil had caught them all by surprise, but Natasha had gone away to think about it and the following night put on leggings and a close-fitting black top, added a dark hat to cover her hair, and headed out into the Manhattan night.

She returned to the Tower four hours later tired, grumpy and without a fight with Daredevil to show for it. She’d hunted high and low for the vigilante, and once or twice had come upon the aftermath of a fight he’d clearly been involved in, but she hadn’t caught a glimpse of the man himself.

Bruce found her in the morning, phone in hand. “He says you were too noisy,” he said.

Natasha tried not to react, but gave up. Bruce knew her too well. “I was silent,” she said.

Bruce showed her his screen. _Tell the Black Widow to try harder_ , it read.

“Tell him,” Natasha said, “it’s war.”

It was a quiet day, and she had time to test out four pairs of shoes to find the quietest ones as well as going through her clothes to make sure nothing rustled. There was also a short conversation with Jarvis which resulted in some useful intelligence, and she headed out that evening with renewed intent, and a pair of night-vision goggles.

She spotted the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen half an hour after she crossed into his territory from Midtown. He was perched right at the edge of a roof, silhouetted against the sky, his head down as though he was listening to something. Natasha grinned to herself, slung her goggles around her shoulders, and as quickly and as quietly as she could, dropped down the nearest fire escape, scaled the one on the opposite side of the street, and landed on the rooftop.

Daredevil was already standing facing her. “Better,” he said, in dark, gravelly tones. “I only heard you from the bottom of the fire escape tonight.”

Natasha swore, and Daredevil grinned at her. “I’ve no idea what you just said,” he noted, “but I assure you, I heard you coming, Miss Romanov.” He shifted his stance. “Are we going to fight?”

“You bet we’re going to fight,” Natasha said, and attacked.

He dodged her, and stepped back, still grinning, teeth white under the black mask. Natasha gritted her teeth, and went again.

 _Bozhe moi_ , she thought to herself, ducking a kick and aiming one of her own, but he was good. The fuzzy YouTube videos did not do the man justice. He was fast, and he was accurate, and he anticipated what she was going to do next better than pretty much anyone she’d ever fought. They wove a deadly dance across the rooftop. He was more powerful than Natasha, but she thought she was probably quicker.

After each of them had been knocked down and got up again perhaps five times, and both were breathing deeply, she took a step back. “Okay,” she said.

Daredevil lowered hands which were surely bruised under the gloves he was wearing. “Okay,” he returned.

“You’re good,” Natasha acknowledged.

He tilted his head a little. “You too,” he said, his voice a little lighter. “Want to go again?”

“Hell yeah,” said Natasha, meaning it. It was good to fight someone new, without the threat of death but with the tang of the unfamiliar.

“Then catch me,” Daredevil threw at her, and he was off.

He didn’t stop, and he didn’t look down at the precipices he was flinging himself off, Natasha realised as she hesitated at one edge. He just jumped, and rolled, and got up and ran again. She decided to just go with it.

She was not really catching him, but he stopped abruptly, balancing easily on the protective wall that was supposed to stop people jumping off the rooftop they were on. Natasha opened her mouth to say something, but he held up a hand to stop her, his head tilted as though he were listening to something.

“Play time’s over,” he said, a second later. “Robbery to stop.” He turned his head towards her, mouth set in a line. “If you want to see what the normal people suffer, come along.”

He dropped off the rooftop, and Natasha heard a soft metallic clang as he landed, evidently on a fire escape below. Stung by the implicit accusation that she, and perhaps the rest of the Avengers, did not care about normal people, she sighed to herself and followed as quickly as she could.

There were already two men laid out cold when she arrived on scene, outside a store with a broken window, and Daredevil was busy pummelling the third. She saw now that he had been pulling his punches earlier – she could almost feel the impact of each blow and it was not long until the third robber, too, was also unconscious and slumped against the wall.

Daredevil, breathing heavily and with a split lip, pulled a cheap phone from his pocket and dialled, speaking briefly into it and hanging up.

“Who’s the normal person in this picture?” Natasha asked.

“The storekeeper,” the Devil said. “He’s a single dad, trying to bring up a couple of kids. These scum,” he gestured at the robbers, “knew that, and yet they targeted him anyway. They’ll get locked up, for a few months.”

“That’s not long.”

Daredevil shook his head. “No, it’s not.” He paused, and his posture shifted. “Cops are on their way.”

Once again Natasha had to hustle to keep up as he headed out of the alley and, using a dumpster, crossed on to the rooftop opposite.

“We could use you,” she told him, once he’d stopped moving again.

“I told your friend Dr Banner I have no interest in being part of your group,” the Devil growled back at her. “This is my city, that’s enough for me.” He relaxed his shoulders an inch. “But the sparring was good. Thanks.”

“You’re well trained,” Natasha acknowledged. “Mind if I come back, one night? Steve Rogers – Captain America – I think he’d be keen too.”

“Not both at once,” Daredevil said, quickly. “Too noticeable.”

Natasha smiled at him. “That’s a yes, then?”

“If you show, I’ll spar,” the Devil agreed, “but if I need to go, I go. Hell’s Kitchen comes first.”

She took a few steps closer to him, and held out her hand. “Deal.” She waited. “Don’t you shake on deals, in Hell’s Kitchen?”

He reached out and took her hand in a firm grip. “Nice meeting you, Miss Romanov.”

“Natasha,” she said.

He nodded at her, and was gone.

Natasha made her way back to Avengers’ Tower at street level, hands in pockets, thoughtful.

In the morning she went to the labs and found Bruce elbow-deep in analysing samples of something. She watched him work, focused and intent on the little dishes of goop, until he looked up and saw her.

“Hey, Nat.” He pushed off his glasses, and came over to her.

“Hey. I found your friend the Devil last night.”

“How was he?” Bruce asked.

“Good.” She considered. “I mean, he’s really good. Reaction times off the scale. D’you think he’s enhanced?”

Bruce fidgeted, avoiding answering, and Natasha realised something. “You know who he actually is.”  The wave of panic that crossed Bruce’s face before he managed to get his features under control told her she was right. “I’m not going to ask. Man’s obviously got privacy issues. But. Is he enhanced?”

Her friend turned back to his experiment. “He’s … let’s just say he’s not quite normal,” he said. “Leave it at that.”

Natasha left it at that.

***

It had been a few days since Black Widow had turned up in Hell’s Kitchen, and Matt was beginning to wonder if she would come back – or send another of the Avengers. Once or twice he had considered texting Bruce, but then decided against it. He had also not told Foggy and Karen about the encounters, although he felt guilty for not mentioning them.

There had actually been little action for the past few nights; Karen’s theory was that the return of Daredevil to the streets had been enough of an incentive to keep all but the most foolhardy criminals off them. And so Matt was pleased when, on the breeze rolling off the Hudson, he caught a new scent. It had the same antiseptic, ozone-y overtones that both Bruce and Natasha Romanov carried, but there was something old-fashioned about the aftershave.

Steve Rogers, Matt decided, as his ears picked up the soft, careful footsteps of a big man moving swiftly and, to normal hearing, silently, two blocks across.

He shifted his focus for a moment, away from the impending arrival of Captain America and down to the streets below. Things were quiet – the couple having an argument would end it in bed, the youths having a fight would give up and slink home to nurse their wounds and do it again tomorrow – and it seemed safe to take an hour and test out another of the Avengers on his turf.

As Rogers landed on his rooftop Matt jumped down off his ledge and turned to face the new arrival.

“Captain Rogers,” he said, testing his assumption.

“Daredevil,” Rogers acknowledged. “Nat says you’re happy to spar a little.” His voice was deep, calm, but there was anticipation in it too.

“Will you hold back on me?” Matt asked, remembering all he’d read about Rogers’ super-strength.

“Planning on holding back on _me_?” Rogers returned, a smile in his voice.

Matt flexed his fingers and returned the smile. “I don’t hold back,” he said.

“Natasha believes you did,” said Rogers, and Matt had to admit to himself that he perhaps had pulled a few punches, a little, with her. He heard the other man’s feet shift. “Busy now?” he asked, and Matt shrugged.

“Not especially. Although I do have one condition: if I have to go, I have to go. The city comes before any sparring.”

“Fair,” agreed Rogers, and launched a right hook at Matt’s face. It was swift enough to catch him off-guard – nearly – and he just managed to duck and come in for a jab and a cross. Evidently Rogers, too, knew a bit about boxing, and Matt let conditioning take over. Boxing, he knew, and although Rogers was quick and light on his feet, he was the sort of man Matt had grown up watching in the ring, before the accident. This was someone who had spent hours against a punching bag, like Matt himself. This was fun.

The rooftop became a boxing ring, the concrete walls less forgiving than the springy elastic of the ring, sure, but the boundaries were the same. Matt kept his feet moving, kept his focus on Rogers and his pulse and his breathing, and the cuts and jabs coming at him.

After about 10 minutes, with neither of them really getting the upper hand, Rogers paused.

“Had enough?” Matt teased, taking the opportunity to wipe his face with his sleeve. It was a warm night and his mask was damp with sweat.

There was the sound of leather as Rogers shrugged off his jacket. “I could do this all day,” he said, the jacket hitting the rooftop in a crumpled heap. Matt focused; it sounded like his opponent was moving back into a classic boxing stance. Well – time to shake things up a bit.

He attacked again with a jump and a kick which Stick would have been proud of. Rogers hesitated only a second, and then adjusted his own style to Matt’s.

With knees and feet involved, the fight moved quicker. Neither of them really had the advantage and this time Matt was the one who paused first, the knee which had taken a metal bar the previous week deciding to twinge at him and causing him to fumble a jump.

“Had enough?” Rogers said, laughing at him, but his breathing was harder now. “Or are we going to switch to karate next?”

Matt shook out his shoulders, and stretched his knee a little, and tried to decide if he’d had enough. Rogers turned away, bent down, and retrieved something from his jacket – water sloshing against plastic. He undid the lid of the bottle, drank, and passed it to Matt.

“Not much space for a water bottle in that outfit of yours,” he noted.

“I tried cargo pants but they were too loose,” Matt said, accepting the drink gratefully.

“But you lost the suit,” said Rogers, easily jumping up on the wall and sitting down. Matt joined him.

“Yeah,” he said, non-committally. “Hard to blend in, in red. Well, you’d know.”

“Blue, but I take your point,” the other man agreed.

Matt passed the water bottle back to Rogers. “Don’t you wish you blended in?” he asked, genuinely interested. Captain America’s life was so very far from Daredevil’s.

“You’d be surprised what civvies and a cap will do,” Rogers said. “Would you honestly recognise me, walking down the street, like this?”

“Yes,” said Matt, because he knew he would now recognise Rogers anywhere, even if it was not by sight. The man’s scent and sounds were distinct.

Rogers sighed. “Well, you got me beat. Wouldn’t recognise you if I walked right past you in daylight.” His heartbeat sang true. “You still going to refuse to join up with us, Daredevil?”

“With the Avengers?”

“We could use you,” Rogers urged, just like the Black Widow had. “You’re good. I don’t know what your thing is, but you sure can fight. World needs people like you.”

“Hell’s Kitchen needs people like me,” Matt said. “Answer’s still no, Captain.”

Rogers boots hit the concrete of the roof as he slid off the edge of the parapet. “Ah well. Can’t blame a man for trying. Any objection if I come back for a repeat?”

“None,” said Matt. “Any time.”

There was the soft creak of leather as Rogers retrieved his jacket and put it back on, and then another slight noise. After a beat, Matt figured that the other man had held out his hand for a shake. He focused, found it, and slid off the wall himself in order to grasp and shake in return.

Rogers let go, and without further words was off and away.

***  
After their weekly meet up for yoga at the Tower, Steve said to Natasha, “I followed your lead last night. Went for a round or two with the Devil?”

“Yeah?” Natasha slung her towel around her neck and unscrewed the cap of her water bottle. “And?”

“Still won’t join us,” Steve said. “You were right, the man’s good.”

Natasha led the way out of the gym and towards the kitchen. “Bruce won’t say, but I reckon the Devil’s enhanced, somehow.”

Steve thought back to the previous evening, and the way Daredevil had danced out of his way during their fights. As though he’d seen Steve’s movements before he’d made them. “I wondered if he had some kind of precognition,” he suggested, but Natasha shook her head.

“His reactions are great, but it’s not that,” she said. “Coffee?”

“Please,” said Steve, perching on a stool. “Whatever he is, he’s a boxer. Damned talented one, too. Punches like he’s trying to break through a wall.”

Natasha busied herself with coffee and mugs, but turned to scowl at Steve. “I knew he was holding out on me. It was mostly martial arts, our bout.”

“Oh, he used that too,” Steve said. “Almost like he thought I would stick to boxing.”

Save for the grinding and gurgling of the coffee machine, Natasha was silent for a moment, but Steve could see she was thinking.

“Almost like he’d never seen you fight,” she said, after a moment, handing him a cup. “Like he’d never watched a video of you.”

Steve thought back, to a moment at the end of the night. Without discussing it, they’d called it quits. The Devil was clearly carrying an injury, and Steve had known he’d had the measure of the man. He’d put on his jacket and gone to shake Daredevil’s hand – and it had taken a moment for the other to respond. Steve had waited, his hand out, and the Devil had tilted his head, like he was listening to something, before shaking.

“But that’s impossible,” he said, out loud.

Natasha looked at him. Steve held out his arm, and she took it, and shook, her lips curled up ironically.

“See?” Steve said. “Even you’re conditioned to respond to a handshake. It’s not something you generally think about. You see the hand, you shake it.”

Natasha passed him a mug of coffee, and took her own. “See any eyeholes on that mask of his?” she asked, and Steve knew he was right.

“None. I figured it was thin enough to see through, but maybe not.”

“Well.” Natasha sipped her coffee. “Now I really want to know more about him.”

***

It was an Italian restaurant this time, and another one of Murdock’s choices. Bruce was first there, but his friend arrived soon afterwards, folding his cane up as he slid into the seat opposite.

“Bruce.”

“Matt.”

The waitress arrived with the menus – one of them actually in Braille for once – and neither of them said anything until they had made their choices. Pushing his menu aside, Bruce studied Murdock’s face.

“You look refreshingly unbruised tonight,” he said.

“It’s been quiet,” Murdock returned, fiddling with the stem of his wine glass. “Too quiet, really. I’m expecting something big to blow up any night.”

“Nat and Steve said they’d been over,” Bruce ventured, and was rewarded with a smile and a nod.

“Yeah. It was fun. Bit different, fighting someone who knows how to fight back.”

“You guys have weird ideas of fun,” Bruce said, shaking his head at Murdock’s grin.

“Your idea of fun is holing up in a lab for hours on end,” Murdock threw back. “Don’t even try telling me that’s not true.”

Bruce had to admit Murdock had a point. He changed the subject, asking how Murdock’s partners were and in return sharing the news of his latest experiments. That took them through to the point where they were both wiping down their pasta bowls with scraps of bread, and Bruce knew he’d put the main issue at hand off too long.

“I think Nat and Steve worked out you’re … that you’re blind,” he said, the words hanging heavy in the air. “I didn’t say anything, but I overheard them talking.”

His friend said nothing for a while. His eyes, red-shaded, were directed down at the tablecloth, and his right hand fiddled with an unused knife by his plate. Finally, he lifted his head – Bruce supposed it was out of habit, a courtesy to his companion – and he said “how?”

“They’re not like the average muggers you hit,” Bruce said, wanting both to reassure Murdock and defend Natasha and Steve. “They’re trained to notice stuff.”

“So what did they notice?” Murdock’s voice was almost a Daredevil growl, pitched low to avoid people overhearing him. The intensity, Bruce had to admit, was unnerving.

“Nat already asked me if you were enhanced,” he said, lowering his own voice. “I mean I didn’t confirm it, but she knows enhanced people. Steve … people think Steve’s just a big guy who can fight, but he’s a soldier. He assesses and he thinks. They were saying something about handshakes, and about the mask not having any eyeholes.”

On the table, Murdock’s left fist clenched, and then unclenched as he visibly took a breath.

“They won’t betray you,” Bruce hurried to add. “They know the value of an identity. Better than most. They’re good people, Matt.”

Murdock sighed. “Yeah. I could tell.” His voice had slipped back into its normal register. “Look. If they ask, I won’t deny it, but I’m not going to tell them my name. Legally, they’re better off not knowing.”

Their food came – pasta for Matt, risotto for Bruce, piled high and glistening. It smelt delicious.

“I can never decide if you’re a lawyer first or a vigilante first,” Bruce said, picking up his fork and digging in. “Legally speaking, you’re probably risking more associating with them than they are with you.”

“It’s a grey area,” Murdock agreed. “My partner, Foggy – he’s got a whole folder of notes on the topic. He’s convinced that one day I’ll be arrested and he’ll have to defend me.”

Bruce, swallowing a mouthful of risotto, thought that Murdock’s friend Foggy sounded like the sort of guy you wanted on your side, and said so. For the first time since they had arrived in the restaurant, Murdock smiled properly, his face lighting up.

“Yeah. He is,” he agreed.

“Way I see it,” Bruce said, “the more friends one has, the better. Steve and Nat would be friends, if you let them.”

“One step at a time,” said Murdock, but there was no longer any tension in his voice. “I’ll start by letting them be allies.” He twisted pasta around his fork, deftly. “I don’t trust easy, Bruce, but I trust you, and so I’ll try and trust them.”

“Thank you,” said Bruce, and he meant it. “And also, thank you for introducing me to yet another great restaurant.”

The conversation devolved to one of food, Murdock explaining how his palate worked, and what he looked for in a restaurant. Bruce shared tales of street food in India, and they agreed the next time they met it would be in an Indian restaurant.

“I know a great place,” Murdock said. “It’s decorated with lots of tiny lights.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, and the pause obviously registered with his friend, who added: “I was told. And also all the bulbs make this faint fizzing noise.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Bruce, “but it’s a date.”

They paid, and headed out into the night to go their separate ways. Murdock flicked open his cane, pushed his glasses further up his nose, and paused before walking away.

“Saturday night,” he said. “47th and 10th, converted warehouse, 11 o’clock. If either the Captain or Black Widow wishes, Daredevil will be there.”

He nodded at Bruce, and was gone, cane sweeping smoothly over the sidewalk.

Bruce grinned, and congratulated himself on chipping another piece away from Murdock’s tough exterior.


End file.
